I twist and fire three shots at his chest. He’s wearing a light green polo shirt, and three red flowers bloom just below his neck.
I turn back to the cowboy, but he’s already coming at me, his gun aimed at my face.
I dip back just before he fires, readjust for a head shot, but he swats the 1911 from my grip, sends it clattering to the ground. I still have the SOG, though, and I toss it to my right hand as I step toward him, grabbing the knife with the blade pointed down and slicing him across the stomach.
The cowboy grunts and backhands me across the face.
I stumble back, the SOG still in my hand, and plan to step toward him again when I realize the distance between us—no more than five feet—isn’t enough for me to reach him before he pulls the trigger.
I dive to the side, in front of the tractor, as the cowboy fires off several rounds.
I rise up on one knee, pull the P320 from the small of my back, flick off the safety.
The cowboy calls out, “You cut me, you fucking bitch!”
Using the tractor for cover, I glance over at Eleanora, her eyes wide as she watches the two of us.
The cowboy shouts again.
“Fucking bitch!”
“You called me that already.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
I hold the SOG in my left hand a beat before tossing it toward the rear of the tractor.
The cowboy, holding his bleeding stomach with his left hand, tracks the knife with his eyes but not with his gun. He keeps that aimed toward the front of the tractor, from where he expects me to jump out. He’s not a total moron, it appears, so I have to hand him that, but he’s still one step behind. Because I don’t go toward the tractor’s front or back—I go over, using the metal step to jump into the seat, the P320’s sight trained right on the cowboy’s face.
His head snaps back an instant after I squeeze the trigger. He stands there for a second, his gun in one hand, his other hand pressed against his bleeding stomach, and then falls to the ground.
Standing tall in the open cab of the tractor, I spin to confirm both the cowboy and his partner are indeed dead, and then I drop to the ground and retrieve the SOG and the 1911 and hurry over to Eleanora.
I peel the duct tape from her mouth, cut her free from the chair, help her to her feet. Her first impulse is to hold onto me, sobbing. I step away from her, and motion at the door.
“Let’s go.”
Her eyes are still wide, taking in the dead bodies, and she looks at me, her face ashen, her mouth agape. But she doesn’t speak, just nods her head, ready to follow me anywhere.
I scan the shed again. Focusing once more on those metal barrels. Thinking about the stench of oil and gasoline.
I tell Eleanora to go outside. She’s scared, shaking, but finally she waddles toward the open side door. Once she’s gone, I check both men’s pockets. I find their wallets, check their IDs. Light green polo is named Samuel Mulkey, the cowboy Philip Kyer. Kyer has his badge clipped to his belt, while Mulkey has his in his pocket. Both badges look legit. Which somehow makes it even worse. There’s nothing more disgusting than a corrupt cop. And here are two of them.
Both men also have cell phones. Mulkey has some nicotine gum packets, but Kyer still hasn’t given up the habit. He doesn’t have any cigarettes on him—those are probably in the car—but he does have a lighter. It’s a fancy one, too, stainless steel with his initials engraved on the side.
It takes me five minutes before everything is set, and then I step outside into the fresh air.
Eleanora hasn’t gone far. She stands there, her arms crossed, trying to keep herself warm. She’s only wearing shorts and a T-shirt and sandals, not the most ideal outfit for the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.
I take my first look at the car parked in front of the shed—the same sedan from last night—and then I take Eleanora’s arm and steer her toward the field of frozen oil derricks—and my car parked in a field two miles away.
We’ve gone maybe two hundred yards before the fuse I’ve set finally catches. The shed starts to burn, and the fire hits the cluster of barrels in the corner. The ground shakes with the explosion. It’s louder than I anticipated, and I’m worried it’ll draw attention much quicker than planned, so I keep my hand on Eleanora’s arm and whisper to her in Spanish to hurry, hurry, hurry.
Fifteen
Leila Simmons is already at the rest stop by the time we arrive, and the moment we park beside her, she opens her door and jumps out.
The rest stop has no exterior lights—not even a single lamp—but the half moon provides just enough light to see she’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. Probably the first things she managed to grab after my phone call.
Leila leans down to see the person in the passenger seat, and as soon as she confirms it’s Eleanora, her eyes go wide as her hands shoot to her mouth. The next moment she rushes forward to open Eleanora’s door, reaching out to touch the girl’s face, like she can’t believe it’s truly her.
A flurry of Spanish ricochets back and forth—Leila asking Eleanora if she’s all right, if she thinks the baby’s okay, if she’s hurt, and Eleanora doing her best to answer before Leila lobs another question—and all the while Leila helps Eleanora from my car and walks her to the Jetta.
I
